


A Little Folding Of The Hands To Rest

by flandersmare



Series: Figrid February 2016 [7]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergenve - The War of the Ring, Day 7, F/M, Fígrid February, I can not stress that enough, Major character death - Freeform, Original Characters - Freeform, Public Reaction, Sigrid and Fili's children, The Rhovanion Valley after the War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-15 21:32:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8073403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flandersmare/pseuds/flandersmare
Summary: The Line of Durin had always been on borrowed time. The King Under Mountain had fallen.The King of Dale had fallen.The Golden Prince and his Silver Lady had fallen.OrI have no idea if the Dwarven faith and spirituality has room or a role for saints, but these two become as good as.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta-ed as usual so any feedback would be greatly apprieciated.

‘Come back to me.’

‘Be here when I return.’

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They went together.

Of course they did.

They were mourned.

Of course they were.

But they weren’t alone.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

War had come to the Lonely Mountain. The evil in the south that had bubbled behind the Black Gate and Mordor had poured forth its’ armies.

Thrice the Black Rider had been turned away from Erebor’s gates. The harbinger’s rasped words turning the very air septic, promising the King Under The Mountain ‘riches unknown to this realm if he but tell of the whereabouts of the hobbit Baggins’.

Thorin had not permitted him to speak upon his returns over the coming year. The Rider was met with shut doors and volley after volley and each time, upon the news that the Rider had been driven away, Thorin would retire to his chambers and weep.

The Ring had lengthen the life of their burglar beyond its’ natural bounds, and when he learned of its’ magic in his hobbit’s blood, Thorin had blessed it and cursed it in the same breath. His love had lingered with him but he was not himself. As their days rolled with the sun, Bilbo became strained, as butter scraped over too much bread. His mind would wander and on their darkest days, he did not know them from the strangers that had invaded his home so many years ago. Or worse, they were the friends-turned-strangers who he had to strain to see through tears, so far above him on the ramparts.

Thorin’s failing heart had broken cleanly the day the frail hobbit had fled from him, his eyes wild and not knowing him, his hands lain defensively across his own throat.

His friends and kin did what they could, but Thorin saw he’d fallen to the old curse of his blood. He’d hoarded his hobbit’s days within his heart and kingdom.

He sent his love on his way, with one last kiss and a stolen moment where there was nothing but the feel of their brows pressed together. He sent his heart out of the Mountain, his heirs guarding him on his journey, to the Healing Halls of Lord Elrond, where he may find peace. Thorin didn’t leave the ramparts until the next morning, despite the distance and the dark, keeping vigil as Bilbo travelled West.

The King’s sentry post and every other on the Mountain and throughout Rhovanion Valley had been manned around the clock since the morning the Rider first appeared. The vigils had been held while ravens brought news to the Mountain. Thorin’s little black scouts brought news from the Kingdoms of Men; telling of strongholds breached and forces mustered. They spoke of the evil brewing at the feet of the Misty Mountains and behind the Mountains of Shadow. They spoke of a Fellowship of travelers set on doing the impossible, a Fellowship that held his love’s nephew and his own kinsman among them. And they told, gently, of a hobbit, grey and fragile, spending his days in the autumn light of Imladris and the shadows of his own mind.

And they warned of a tide, black and roiling, creeping ever closer.

In much the same way he’d done with his own heart, King Thorin sort to shore up his kingdom and his people against the oncoming forces. Walls were strengthened, forges burned day and night to arm and armour each warrior, barb and fletch each arrow, saddle and shoe each steed. Provisions were laid down and those who could and would make the journey were sent to the Iron Hills and Grey Mountains. Tunnels between the Mountain and the City of Dale were excavated and Thorin welcomed all of King Brand’s people who would seek shelter in the Mountain. The tunnels acted as escape route, as communication thoroughfares and as traps, should the earth be breached. Forces came from the Iron Hills and the Elven King’s Halls, for all knew that the Battle for the North would be won or lost in the shadow of the Lonely Mountain.

King Thorin did everything a king could to defend his people.

But the Line of Durin had always been on borrowed time.

Thorin knew he owed each heart beat to one Bilbo Baggins, and as he closed his eyes against the scream of battle and the familiar faces of the carven guards of Erebor’s gates looking down on him, King Brand’s body besides him, Dain’s voice frantic in the air above him, he comforted himself in the thought that he’d repaid the kindness, giving his life in this War for a realm Bilbo and Frodo had given their all to protect.

He just prayed, as the tears slipped from under his closed lids, that when they next met, Bilbo could find it in himself to forgive him.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The King Under Mountain had fallen.

The King of Dale had fallen.

The Golden Prince and his Silver Lady had fallen.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the years and annuals to come, the bards and scholars seemed to think that they deserved a poetry to their deaths. Reports of the Lady Sigrid collapsing and feeling every blow her husband sustained found their way into the pages of Erebor’s history.

That was not the case.

Lady Sigrid had been found not far from the hospital wards, her bird-like form crumpled against an unadorned wall. Her hands were still wet with blood and a few bandages had tumbled away from her, white linen fanning out like cut strings.

The bards sang of how she held on long enough to see her husband one last time.

She was gone when they’d found her.

The siege had held for three days with wounded and dying pouring in from every quarter. The infirmaries stank of blood and tar and the medics were indistinguishable from their charges, blood soaked and soot blackened. It had been a quiet corner where a young nurse had found her, needing but a moment to weep in peace.

The scream had brought healers running, but there was nothing they could do. She was awaited on white shores, and beyond, in a far green country under a swift sunrise.

When they found him, he was hardly any better.

Prince Fili was carried from the battle field. Even if his legs had been whole enough to support him, his chest was too caved to draw the breath for it.

‘Where is she?’ he’d keened from between bloody teeth. ‘I need her. Where is she?’

He could barely see for blood and sweat, but he seemed to be able to taste it in the air. No one needed to say a word. When he quietly, faltering bade them take him to her, his litter was born aloft, shouldered by friends and kinsmen. Dwalin walked in silence at his head, tears carving tracks into the grime and gore upon his face. This was not the first march he’d made that day for the Line of Durin, for he had born his King and Shield-Brother to his chamber of rest. Fili can hear his own little brother’s uneven, hiccuping breaths in his ear. He was in no condition to bare his brother’s weight, but they both needed this.

Stonehelm moved ahead, his low rumbling commands gently clearing a path through the exhausted confusion. Faces in the crowd would turn and pale. There were gasps and soft cries. The gentle tolling of knuckles on breast plates rippled in their wake as warriors place a hand over their hearts, heads bowed as the litter passed. The further and further they marched into the mountain, the quieter the sounds of battle became. And the wetter Fili’s breaths grew.

The guards on the door to the royal chambers, two wild-eyed younglings all but vibrating with resolve, shouldered the doors wide for them. The room was dim, the light sputtering from poor candles and pooling around the bed. It skittered across the Prince’s swords and shield that processed before them in the arm of a young soldier. The shadows that fluttered across the comforter belonged to what was left of the royal family.

There was a strangled wail from the bedside.

Dis rose from her seat to catch Tildris as she swayed, steadying her grand-daughter as the young dwarrowdam shook. Fili tried to smile weakly at her as he was lowered to the occupied bed. He could see her shaking, even the shafts in the quiver at her hip she still wore rattled.

‘Hello sweetling,’ Fili coughed. Tildris’ strength finally deserted her, she fell to her knees besides him, a fresh wave of tears already carving new tracks though the sweat, grime and blood on her face. He tried to sooth her, hushing her even as she bit into the leather of her arm brace to deaden the sobs. Two more white faces tumbled into his wavering sight line. His two little lads, without a scruff of beard between them, so young. Frervi and Bardorin bracketed their big sister, both grey faced and little fists clenched on the blankets.

‘My children,’ Fili’s words were accompanied by a cough and red spots blooming like flowers on the pillow case beneath his cheek. He tried to open his arms to them and his two boys strained like hounds on the leash before checking themselves.

‘Papa’, Tildris begged, both her hands finding one of his, ‘your wounds.’

‘There are no more hurts that can touch me now.’  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Fili could feel himself getting colder as his strength continued to ebb. His two boys burned like embers at his side and his daughter’s hand in his felt like a young sword hilt fresh from the forges.

‘Kili,’ Fili tried to wet his throat with something other than his own blood. ‘Kili.’ His brother staggered to the bedside, Tauriel half a stride behind him. He had one hand holding a wadded cloth clamped over a ruined eye. ‘Kili’, Fili swallowed thickly, ‘look after them. Please, look after them.’ He flexed the hand held tight by his daughter.

They hadn’t ever talked about this, he and his brother. They hadn’t needed to. They were invincible. And Thorin would out live the stars. But he owed her this. It was hers by right. But he hated bestowing it upon her while the walls shook and it’s halls were filled with the scent of the dying and noise of battle.

‘Support her, guide her,’ he begged. ‘Please. Keep her safe, help her-.’

‘Of course,’ Kili cut his brother’s increasingly brittle words. ‘Of course brother. I will protect them. They are your children and my blood.’ He rested a hand on Tildris shoulder as she sobbed and turned her wet face to her uncle. ‘She will be our Queen, my Queen.’ Tildris turned her face into her uncle’s hand as it twisted and another sob broke free of her throat. ‘We will see that you soar, Blue Bird.’

‘Thank you,’ Fili choked. Kili placed a familiar hand on Fili’s jaw and pressed his forehead to his brother’s for one long moment. ‘Thank you, my brother,’ Fili whispered and when he opened his eyes again the room was turning grey at the edges ‘My children, I fear we must say our goodbyes now.’

He heard the hitched breaths of his sons while Tildris had gone silent. 'Papa?’ Bardorin was the first to come closer. He followed his Uncle Kili’s led, pressing their foreheads together. Fili could feel his son’s trembling and when the lad collapsed onto his chest to hide his face in his father neck, Fili was ready for it. Frervi did not observe the ritual of it all, opting to burrow into his father’s other side. ‘Now my boys,’ and the two small pale faces turned towards him. Both sets of eyes were over bright and wild with fear and sorrow and weariness. Frervi’s lip was trembling. ‘I need you both to be brave, and look after your sister. She is going to need help.’ With an effort he would not have thought possible of himself, he raised both his hands until his fingers slid into his sons’ curls. ‘I’m sorry,’ he gasped, tears that he had been holding back now threatening. ‘I’m so sorry, I won’t be there for you as you grow into the fine sons of Men and Dwarves I know you will be.’

His brave lads. Only 34 and 40. Barely more than younglings.

They each pressed their foreheads to his once more, pressing as if they intended to fall though their father’s skull, before sliding from the bed with murmured ‘love you’s. They gravitated to their grandmother, sliding to the stone floor and resting against her legs, spent.

Fili drew a rattling breath and placed his shaking hand over his daughter’s, where they gripped fit to tear the bed sheets. ‘Tildris,’ he murmured, ‘look at me.’ Tildris’ head came up, but her face was turned to the side and her eyes screwed shut. Fili could hear her trying to marshal her breathing as it hissed from between her clenched teeth. As soon as it looked like she would lose her control, the tension bled from her face. She took a few gulped mouthfuls of air and her eyes opened at last. They were swimming with tears, but they were bright.

‘You will weather this. It will hurt, but you are strong. And so, so brave my girl. You will lead them into this next day. I’m sorry-‘ his voice failed him as he worked around the blood in his own throat and panic started to claw out of his chest. It was happening too fast, there wasn’t time. He didn’t have time. He didn’t have time to tell her, to teach her.

Rule justly. Govern with kindness. Have faith in yourself and in your people. Love with your whole self and for your whole self. Grow strong. Be brave. Know I love you. Know we love you.

‘I’m so proud of you, Gehyith.’

Tildris’ breath came shorter still and she called for her grandmother. A high, thin, terrified noise that broke his failing heart. His darling girl, still putting the comfort of other’s before her own.

His mother’s face appeared above him, the sable of her hair and beard bleeding into the grey that was creeping further in at the edges.

‘Amad,’ he whispered and at last, the fear and pain and sorrow won out. ‘Amad, gajut men-‘

‘No tears,’ his mother’s hands burned like brands where they stroked his cheeks. ‘No remorse.’ Her smile was tremulous but those hands were steady. She held him firm as she dropped her face to his, pressing first her forehead, then her lips to his brow. ‘You go to Mahal's Halls, as a Son of Durin, and you go to those who love you and will guide you.’ Fili felt the sweep of her thumbs over his cheeks. ‘I love you my boy.’

The noise that struggled past Fili’s lips was pained and frightened and Dis hushed him with a gentle hand in his hair.

‘Help me,’ Fili whispered. His breath was coming shorter and shorter. ‘Please, help me.’

Hands.

First his mother’s, then his brother’s, his daughter’s, his friends’, his sons’.

Hands. Gently lifting, turning, guiding, pushing, supporting.

He opened his eyes once more, they focused first on the spots of red on the pillow, blossoming on the linen like poppies in a corn field. It takes him a moment to taste the blood on his tongue.

He doesn’t remember closing his eyes again. But when he opens them again, she’s there.

She looked so peaceful in death. The years don’t melt away from her, but they draw back a little, as if aware they are encroaching on something special. The lines around her eyes were softer now; filigree rather than carved. The room’s poor light could not do her justice, the dirty light snagging in her pearly hair and causing shadows to skittering across her face like clouds in high winds.

But she was still, as he had not seen her in a long, long time. The nervous energy of a bird about to take flight was gone, the fear and worry no doubt had left her closed eyes, the grim grit of her mouth had soften.

Neither of them belonged to this war anymore. To this world anymore.  
  
He took her hand, and held on to her.

Even as he, at last, let go.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Battle raged. The news came on the wings of the Eagles. The enemy was driven back. The Queen Under The Mountain received a battlefield coronation.

Mourning enfolded the Mountain.

King Thorin II, Prince Fili and Princess Sigrid lay in state as their fallen people were put to rest and the bodies of the enemy burned the battlefield blacker still. Their fallen were beyond count, beyond the price of all but freedom and light. There was a fourth, open tomb in the chamber, before the three that would be filled. One without a given or even a secret name. One blank for any name to be imagined on its’ unmarked face. Known only to Mahal and those who mourn them.

The mountain halls, which had not long hence echoed with the sounds of battle and the cries of the wounded, now rang with countless soft voices. The still air of the Chambers of Rest was thick with song and incense, even as the whole of Erebor and her allies came to bid their fallen rest. Those who were strong enough to attend carried those who weren’t.

The Elvenking Thranduil journeyed from his Woodland Realm. Hollow eyed, he climbed the dias with the Sons of Durin and the Children of Men, caring not as that they watched on as he bent, weeping, to press a kiss to the brow of the last of the children of Bard the Dragonslayer.

‘The King has come unto his own,’ Princess Dis’ voice echoed through the Chamber and into the Mountain, as if something in her words sought the open sky. ‘Under mountain, under stone. Send him now into the deep. Unto earth, eternal sleep. Under mountain, under stone. Through all lands let it be known.’ Kili gripped her elbow as she took a shuddering breath, looking up into the white face of her grand-daughter across the chamber.

‘The King is dead. Long live the Queen.’

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They went together.

Of course they did.

They were mourned.

Of course they were.

And yet they were so alone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta-ed, so any pointers thank you muchly.

Thorin Stonehelm resisted the urge to sink his aching head into his hands and snarl. Instead, he opted for the much more dignified option of rubbing at one temple. The motion caused his elbow to dislodge one of the many peaks of the mountain range of documents and treaties and missives that littered the scarred table top. Over the rustle of sliding parchment, he could just make out Balin’s small noise of distress amoung the scoffs and mutterings drifting from the other end of the council table.

Thorin cast an apologetic glance to Balin and returned to staring down the other delegation. He tried not to catch the eyes of those he knew, instead trying to display in his disposition alone, how very very displeased he was with the current situation.

King Thorin was barely cold in his tomb and the fires in the South were still smoking and yet, these fools came to the Mountain and brought nothing but discourse.

Tildris was Queen by right. By birth. By the dying breath of her father and her king.

And they would challenge this.

They would arrive, in their pomp and circumstance, wearing their years like it entitled them to something, and seek to deny his young cousin her birthright. In the very halls she bleed to defend and before the people her parents and kin died protecting.

Thorin’s stomach turned at the memory of Tildris’ tired face going grey under the grim and stone dust and his hands itched for his sword hilt just as it had on that morning.

Now they stood here, a day hence, in the council chamber and acted like they were the ones who were being slighted, being inconvenienced.

A few of them threw the odd conspiratorial smirk his way, as if wanting to include him in their efforts. He’d heard what they had to say and he wanted to throw each of them bodily from the parapets and out of this Mountain.

She was too young to rule.

Yes, she was young. At 57 years old, she was barely into her majority in the eyes of these dwarves who saw fit to not help a besieged kingdom. But she has surrounded herself with the wisest minds Erebor and abroad, for surely the mole hills these dwarves hailed from would have nothing to offer the court. They flock to her, their Princess turned Queen. Those who had known and loved those before her. And she is not the youngest to have led her people. Thorin’s own father, Dain Ironfoot, had been a mere youth when he in one day, gained a title inherited and a title earned. Thorin’s namesake was younger still the day the dragon came.

Ah, but those great rulers were Dwarves. She’s a Dwarrowdam. And one of questionable heritage at that.

There’d been a ripple through the half destroyed hall when they’re aired that grievance. Thorin hadn’t been the only body held back by restraining hands.

They sought to have her removed. Oh gently, over course. She was so young and untested. Have a regent in place. Not the Lady Dis. Poor Lady Dis, losing her brother and a son in the defence of her home. No, best not burden her. Prince Kili? Oh, perhaps not. After all he was currently on the road to Gondor to represent Durin’s Folk at the crowning of the King of Men. And his lady had gone with him. His Elven lady. No, no maybe this branch of the Line of Durin would bear no more fruit.

The Lords of the Iron Hills were of the Line of Durin were they not? Lord Dain was a tested leader of his people, in both war and peace. Oh, Lord Dain is still in his infirmary bed?

Young Lord Thorin, could you see yourself as regent? In a regency that may not be revoked?

Bile had risen in Thorin’s throat, and did again at the memory, of the look that had crossed Tildris’ face behind the backs of the interlopers as they’d smiled kindly at him. As if they were doing him a favour. As if it was all for his benefit.

He’d frozen in panic. He’d never been one for diplomacy, much preferring to settle an argument with training blades. He wasn’t equipped for their double edged words. He wasn’t battle ready.

His young cousin had never been an imposing figure. While Tildris had a height a full Dwarf would never achieve, she didn’t possess the width of shoulder and hip to cast an impressive shadow in the presence of dwarves. That did not seem to matter in that moment. Face marred with soot and masonry, she welcomed the contingent to her kingdom, invited them to rest and promised to hold an audience with them the following morn.

And here Thorin found himself. At a table that had within the month been littered with campaign maps and inventories of armouries and larders. It’s scorched and scarred top was now covered in missives from this Lord or that and the odd the flagon or bowl of fruit or nuts having been scoffed at.

The gravest insult, Thorin heard one mutter. Can’t even host a delegation properly. The shame of it.

Thorin’s hand stopped half way to his knife hilt when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He thought of shrugging it off, of taking his blade, of teaching these bearded goblins something of what this mountain has endured. Of what his beloved cousin and kin has endured. The greatest and most compassionate hearts in this Mountain where either half a world away or lain beneath stone and these sons of mangy wargs had come, sniffing for blood, and he would not let them have it, they would not take her down, he will not let them, they would have no mercy from him, he would end th-

The hand squeezed.

Thorin released a breathe he didn’t even know he’d been holding. The tension slipped off him so suddenly he missed its’ weight, as if a cloak had slipped from his shoulders. He could breathe a little easier and took a fortifying lungful, releasing it in a sigh, the rush of air unnoticed by most in the room.

‘Yer alright lad?’ By sense, Dain ought not be in the room. He ought to be in bed; resting, healing, regaining his strength. But by rights, he was here. His father sat propped in one chair while leaning on a high stool for support, strapped to within an inch of his life and glowering at their visitors. He himself had not been there at their arrival, but the poisonous looks he sent in their direction suggested he’d been well informed.

It was just the two of them on this side of the table at present. Some of the lords that looked to match his father in years had approached Dain to pledge their support for his claim only to draw back as if Dain’s reply had scolded their flesh. It was the wounds talking, no doubt.

‘Yes Adad.’ Thorin cast a tired eye around the room and over his shoulder. ‘Where’s Balin?’

‘Dwalin called him away some minutes ago lad,’ Dain muttered. ‘I think they want the full force when she arrives.’

As if summoned by his father’s words, the door to the chamber open. The first through the door was the Fundin brother, Balin grave faced and Dwalin graver still. They took up station either side of the door, Dwalin crossing his arms and staring down their guests. Balin looked through them as if they were not there at all.

‘Tildris. Daughter of Sigrid, daughter of Kendra. Daughter of Fili, son of Vili. First of her name. Whom the battlefield hath titled Longwings. Queen Under the Mountain. Queen of Durin’s Folk.’

Tildris had never been an imposing figure.

She'd always been a thing of magnificence.

She entered the chamber and each eye was drawn to her, willed or not. She wasn’t gilded or resplendent but she commanded the attention of all in the room, the way a forest fire commanded on the horizon. The crown of Thorin II sat upon her brow, her honey brown hair twisted up and around the black iron ravens, the same way her mother had won her coronet. Her hair and beard were braided back; here the braid of Durin’s line, there the braid of an archer who has seen battle, there the braid of a scholar. Her father’s old travelling furs complimented a short riding cloak of her mother’s that did nothing to hide her mail and leathers or her father’s twin blades hanging at her hips.

She walked in stately and unsmiling and observed those who would deny her in her own home coldly as Lady Dis followed her in, seeing fit to close the door behind her. The thud had a finality to it that seemed to break the spell she’d cast across the room. No one moved for a moment, the visiting lords having unconsciously huddled closer together when the royal party had entered. The Dwarrowdam before them now was not the tired and dusty creature they’d found amongst her foremen just yesterday. The rodent eyes of the meddling lords were scurrying around in their skulls now, each looking for a route out. More and more were alighting on Thorin, but he paid them no mind.

Thorin felt his heart swell with pride as the hand at his shoulder squeezed gently one more, shaking him gently from side to side.

His feet were moving without his leave, carrying him between Tildris and her challengers. Maybe he could not resolve this with an axe blade, but he may achieve something with a well-placed knife point.

Tildris only blinked once when Thorin appears in a rush. Out of the corner of his eye, Thorin could see his father start to half rise from his supported seat. He didn’t take his eyes off Tildris’ face however. He could still see the weariness and heartache in her eyes along with a cold calmness that let him know, whatever he did, she would weather.

Before all assembled, the Household of Tildris Longwings and the lords from the foreign dwells, Thorin Stonehelm bent the knee before his young cousin.

‘My Queen.’

Though his head was bowed, his voice echoed around the chamber. No one will miss it, no one will mishear.

There was a beat of stillness as the scene set, a moment trapped in amber.

Before the quiet could linger too long and the uneasiness in Thorin’s gut could set root, he heard the slight rustle of cloth catching on chainmail as Tildris stretched out her hand, laying it upon his brow.

‘Welcome, Thorin Stonehelm. Lord of the Ironhills.’ Thorin looks up and her face has the smallest of smiles playing at the corner of her lips. She looks so like her father in that moment; the youthful tinkle in the eye softened but hard earned wisdom and her golden curls determined to go their own way. ‘Welcome and well, my dear cousin.’ She draws her hand back only to offer it to him anew to assist and bid him rise. Thorin took hold of her fingers, dropping a quick kiss to her knuckles before standing swiftly.

He followed her smile, falling into her slipstream as she moved further into the room. Dain started to labour himself from his seat, but Tildris bade him sit with a raised hand. ‘Lord Dain, how fare you this day? Are you well?’

‘I am well enough,’ Thorin tried to hide his grimace as his father blustered. ‘My Queen’, he added after a moment’s thought as he settled back down in his seat.

‘My family and my people owe you and yours a great debt, Lord Dain. We would not have held the Mountain without your aid and our casualties would have been much greater without the refuge you offered.’ She pressed a hand to her chest and bowed her head to him. ‘The Mountain and I owe you a great debt.’

‘La- My Queen, we will always stand with you against your enemies. Be they from the Black Lands,’ he grunted and twisted in his turning a furious glare on the huddled group of minor lords once again, the lines of his scowl etched deeper by pain. ‘Or a little closer to home.’

‘Ah, of course. My Lords,’ her voice cut through the room and Thorin had to hide a smirk as the group, to a dwarf, flinched like startled game. ‘I thank you all for making the perilous journey to us here. The country still holds many threats, we having only driven the enemy back in these last few weeks.’ Tildris turned on them all, casually drawing a hand to rest on one cocked hip, allowing the light to catch on her father’s old weapons and gleam off her vambrace. The smile was still there but her eyes had taken on the same steely glint Thorin remembered seeing in the Lady Sigrid. ‘I believe you have travelled here with concerns the put before the court. I will hear them further here. Anything that cannot be resolved can be put before my people for debate.’ Tildris approached the table, pulling out a high backed chair besides Dain, Lady Dis silently taking the seat on her other side. She settled into her seat, lacing her fingers together on the table top and pinned them all with an expectant look. ‘Come now sirs. You’ve come all this way. What complaints to you have to put before a young Dwarrowdam of questionable heritage?’

The smile turned wolfish.

The hand on Thorin’s shoulder squeezed once more.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_May the Golden Prince grant you counsel._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I highly doubt Tolkien's dwarves are these sorts of levels of douche but I needed the discourse.

**Author's Note:**

> So I made myself cry multiple times whilst writing this so.... Yeah, sorry.


End file.
